Us

When you see us you see twins. You see a woman and her sister, a heart and its soul. Then you open us, lay us arms akimbo and realise that we are made of the same intensity, fed from the same milk. Our hearts steeled to the same nonsense, our minds empathizing to the tears.

Yet to each other we are bulls. Unwilling and unyielding. Lost in the sea of misunderstanding, hanging on to the fragile hope of reconciliation. Why has our relationship strained and struggled to rebuild? Is it because we are twins just born in different eras? Is it because we hope our similarities will bridge us without us personally ever adding on to the half-finished construction.

I was 8 when I first thought you hated me. Alone with wandering thoughts, you became the witch in my story, the obstacle I needed to overcome in the climax of my story.

“I know you hate me but its fine, I’m your mum and I’m stuck with you.” You said.

How did that not alert me to the divide between us? How did it not warn me of the depth of the rift? All that was highlighted, and all that has been highlighted since then is that you were stuck. Much like you are stuck with a disease or a bad grade. How were you stuck with me when I didn’t choose? How could you be stuck when I didn’t choose but you did? Was I a mistake? Why did you run to the word ‘hate’, is it that that’s what you felt for me?

I was 13 when I decided to grow. To overcame us, to “positive vibes” our relationship. I came to you with open arms and extended an olive branch. I tip toed towards you, clothed in white silk, eyes wide in eager anticipation of reunion. Probably more of rectification because for as far back as my memory can carry me, we have never been a union.

“You don’t ask someone to be your friend. You become friends by talking.”

Rebuffed. Blocked. My silk cape flapped uneasily. Unsure how to proceed in these unchartered yet familiar territories. Wasn’t this the part in our story where we came together and faced the sun? The heady, tear-filled conclusion that won us awards and got us a sequel.

I was 16 when I decided to embrace what we were and stop allowing us to dictate my life. My life felt yours to control. At a simple word, I could crash or soar. Why was I only ever crashing? Catching a hold of my downward spiral, the second half of 16 was determined to be better. Even when you mocked my weight, belittled my dreams, I stayed stagnant. That doesn’t explain why when someone said we are so alike and you answered “Really?”, I cried for two hours. Why, why is it that even in my highest moments, the times when I could see that I was placed here with a purpose of my own, why could I only see myself in your shadow?

I was 18 when I sat down to examine us, remembered the moments when you were my supporter. When your voice was the first I wanted to hear after I received good news. All those times we laughed because we were twins, a woman with her sister. I spent that year entrenched in happiness, drunk with the satisfaction that comes with the realization that we were the same; o mesmo. Is it that before, I didn’t realise the beauty of similarity or that I wanted from you that which you could not provide? Did I expect too much or did you? I asked you once, as we lay on cloud nine.

“Everyone goes through this. The child just finds a way to get over the problems they have”

Our cloud dwindled slowly. My eyes shone and then didn’t. The birds that had accompanied us with song dissipated in search for a brighter environment; they weren’t well versed in tragic tales. How was it that I was the only one that molded themselves to suit the other? Were we truly not intertwining rivers? Did we not feed from the same milk? Why am I destined to flow from you and change with your tides? I remember feeling bitter because it was who I fixed me, I who mended my journey, yet you still reaped the benefits.

I was 20 when I realised that maybe you didn’t know how to either. It could be that you believed this was the way things were supposed to be and didn’t know how to make them another way. It could be that when I was eight and you accused me of hate, you were trying to mend the bridge by calling out the problem in the best way you understood it. Could it be that when I was 16, you weren’t sure how to tell me that I could achieve more than I dreamt and it ended up coming out as “You dream too narrow.”? I’d like to think that when I was 18, you were so happy to have found a path with me, you forgot to acknowledge the changes you made to fit me. I’d like to think that it was our likeness that scared you. The fact that we were twins yet I made mistakes and choices you made before, frightened you. With your success, who was I going to become if I didn’t learn from you?

“I forgive you.”

You would have laughed if I had said it to you and you would have asked what you needed forgiveness for, so I settled on a hug. I enveloped you and breathed you in. A scent as familiar as my own. Even though my words were swallowed and our connection remained undeclared, I still felt it. The hope that carefully connected us before shone with a renewed purpose. Our vision finally landed on the green in the horizon. Maybe our path wasn’t destined to end in loss. Our likeness wasn’t supposed to place me in your shadow. We aren’t a woman and her sister, we aren’t twins. We are two beautiful creatures on similar but separate journeys.